Chapter 3
Farewells and Other Lies
It was amazing what a hot meal could do for one’s spirits, Angel thought as Mr Cleaver helped her up into the gig.
She was more than a little sorry to say goodbye to him, but it wasn’t as if she could confide in a man she didn’t know.
For all she knew, he might be a cutthroat or a murderer, though she couldn’t believe that.
He exuded honesty and warmth; even sitting beside him had been like sitting beside a warm fire.
It was a comforting sensation, as if no harm could come to one if such a fellow was about.
Yet she would not impose upon him either, not when he had already been so kind. Paying for their meal and for the care of their pony was more than they could have hoped for and would stretch their funds a little further.
“I understand you are headed for Eynsford,” Mr Cleaver remarked, as he offered Milly his hand.
Angel caught Toby’s eye, glaring at him for tattling. The boy reddened and darted behind the gig to climb up on the box.
“Yes, to visit my aunt,” Angel said, improvising. After all, there was nothing inherently suspicious about going to Eynsford.
“Ah, your aunt,” he replied, nodding gravely. “I’ve got an excess of aunts. Young, pretty aunts, maiden aunts, fussy, irritating aunts, great aunts. They’re a dashed odd lot on the whole, but one cannot escape them.”
Angel swallowed a giggle. “You have a large family, I collect, Mr Cleaver.”
He nodded, his expression so gloomy that the urge to laugh was hard to resist. “A dreadful lot of them. I’ve two sisters, as well.”
“And aunts,” she reminded him.
His mouth kicked up at the corners, his smile crooked and boyish and so dreadfully charming she felt her foolish heart quiver with pleasure. “And aunts, several uncles, and don’t get me started on the cousins. And you, Miss Baxter? You come from a large family?”
Angel’s smile dimmed, and she shook her head. “No. Just me, and my mother and father. That’s all.”
“And your aunt.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Oh! Yes, and my aunt, of course. Aunt M…M—”
“Maevis, Miss Baxter. Your Aunt Maevis,” Milly cut in with a nervous giggle. “Dear me, my young lady would forget her head if it weren’t screwed on.”
Mr Cleaver’s eyes danced with amusement and Angel occupied herself with the reins, hoping he did not think her a complete henwit. “Well, then,” she said, doing her utmost to compose herself as she offered him her hand. “Thank you once again, Mr Cleaver, you have been most kind.”
“Good day to you, Miss Baxter, Miss Milly, Toby.” He went to lift his hat, realised it wasn’t there, and laughed. Bowing deeply, he walked away from them.
Angel swallowed, the urge to turn around and find some pretext for keeping him talking a moment longer hard to resist. But her future, not to mention Milly’s and Toby’s, hung in the balance, and there was no time for flirting, no matter how strong the temptation.
They had been travelling for a good half an hour when the sound of enthusiastic singing reached their ears. A lively baritone carried the words of John Barleycorn to them.
“There were three men came out of the west, their fortunes for to try, and these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn should die.”
“It’s Mr Cleaver!” Toby exclaimed excitedly from his position on the box.
Angel and Milly glanced at each other, eyes wide, and Angel struggled to deny the smile that wanted to curve her lips.
She knew she ought to be suspicious, cross even, at the temerity of the fellow, but then again, it was a public road and a well-used one.
Why ought he not be going in the same direction as them?
If he hadn’t been, they would never have met.
The big bay came up alongside them as the singing grew louder.
“They’ve ploughed, they’ve sown, they’ve harrowed him in, thrown clods upon his head—” Mr Cleaver broke off as he glanced down at them, his face a comical mask of surprise. “Why, Miss Baxter, Miss Milly, what a coincidence!”
“Indeed, Mr Cleaver,” Angel said wryly. “One might almost believe you were following us.”
“Me? Following? Oh, no.” He shook his head with every appearance of gravity. “That would make me appear a rogue, a dreadful fellow with nefarious intentions. No, indeed. I’m going to visit my uncle.”
He said it with a straight face, the rat, and even when Angel narrowed her eyes at him, giving him the death stare she had learned from her Pops, he just returned a guileless smile of such innocence that she could not keep it up.
“Your uncle?” she repeated, daring him to continue with such a blatant falsehood.
He nodded. “Yes, my uncle—but wait, were you not going to see your aunt? You don’t suppose they know each other?” He blinked at her, a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression on his handsome face that likely had women forgiving him all manner of wickedness.
“Really, Mr Cleaver,” Angel said, shaking her head at him. “If you cannot lie convincingly, you really ought not to make the attempt.”
“Ah,” he said, his broad shoulders heaving in a sigh. “Well, it was worth a try.”
He turned back to her, his hazel eyes twinkling.
“You had better make a clean breast of it,” she told him severely, aware she was flirting with the fellow but quite unable to stop herself. “What are you up to?”
He looked away from her and rode in silence for a moment before meeting her gaze. There was quite a different look there now, and Angel felt whatever he might say next, it would be the truth.
His voice was gentle, the deep rumble falling pleasantly upon her ears.
“I have the strangest feeling, Miss Baxter, that you do not have an aunt in Eynsford. Indeed, I fear you may be in some kind of trouble, or that you are heading directly towards it. As I am at a loose end at present, and in dire need of distraction, or even a bit of adventure should such a thing present itself, I should be honoured if you would allow me to escort you and act as er… guard dog.”
Milly shot Angel a worried glance as Angel put up her chin, unnerved that he had seen through them with such ease. “You are very sure of yourself, sir. I do not think it unreasonable to suppose I have an aunt in Eynsford.”
“No, indeed, but I rather think you’d remember her name,” he pointed out with a smug smile.
“At least I remembered my own name,” Angel shot back, quirking an eyebrow at him.
He laughed at that, gazing at her with undisguised admiration. “Touché.”
Angel wondered who he really was and why he’d hide it.
Was he in some kind of trouble? He had excellent manners and spoke like a gentleman, but he seemed too rough-hewn, too down at earth and not at all top lofty.
Perhaps he was gentry, a local landowner perhaps, or a gentleman farmer. She could see that.
“Your name’s not really Leo Cleaver, then?” she pressed.
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s close enough.”
“Why lie?” she asked. Was his hale fellow well met act just that? What if he really did have nefarious intentions?
“Why invent an aunt in Eynsford?” he countered. His gaze focused upon her with unnerving intensity. “You are running away, Miss Baxter, or running towards, and either might land you in a fix of the kind you’ll not easily escape from.”
“You cannot know that,” Angel exclaimed with a huff.
“No, but if I were your papa, I suspect would not allow such a pretty creature out alone with only a maid and a young lad for protection.”
Angel pursed her lips and said nothing for a while.
“He’s awful big,” Milly observed under her breath. “Might be nice to have a… a…”
“Guard dog,” Mr Cleaver supplied helpfully, proving there was nothing wrong with his hearing.
Angel scowled at him. “And what would you want in return for your service?” she asked, still sceptical despite her certainty that he was exactly what he appeared to be, although he’d given a false name. She had reasons for keeping her name a secret, it was not unreasonable to suppose he did too.
He looked rather offended by her question. “Not a blessed thing,” he said indignantly. “Only to see you safe where you’re going, and to enjoy your company on the way. The road can be lonely when you travel it alone.”
Angel wished she didn’t want an excuse to keep him around.
It was impossibly difficult to second guess her own motives.
If he was everything he appeared to be, it would be good to have such a strong, amiable fellow about.
But how could she be sure? She looked away from the road ahead, glancing up at him. “And where is it you are going?”
He shrugged, giving her a rueful smile. “It’s more where I’m not going.”
“Home to all the aunts?” Angel suggested.
His laugh, loud and rumbling, made her smile. He laughed often and easily, she realised.
“Something like that,” he admitted.
“And what about your wife?”
He slid her a sideway glance, his broad grin showing even white teeth. “Oh, I don’t have a wife, Miss Baxter. Not a single, solitary one.”
The George Inn, Cranbrook, Kent, 6th April 1816
They reached Cranbrook late in the afternoon. Angel was glad of it, despite her anxiety at staying in such a busy place. Still, having Mr Cleaver with them—who had proposed posing as her guardian—might put anyone trying to find her off the scent.
The George, on Stone Street, stood close to the church.
It was a handsome building. Long, with red brick on the lower floor and decorative tile hanging to the upper storey, it was obviously ancient.
Cranbrook had once been a prosperous town, its fortunes built on cloth, the success of which had diminished steadily since the last century.
Inside, the scent of wood smoke and ale, ancient dusty beams and roast meat mingled pleasantly as the weary travellers sought refuge. The weather had closed in over the past hour, an angry, bruised sky smothering them with fine drizzle that had quickly turned to a more unforgiving shower of rain.
A fine establishment which, according to the innkeeper, had once accommodated Elizabeth I on her progress through the country, The George was nonetheless free of frills.
Behind a heavy wood counter, pewter tankards and earthenware jugs were neatly arranged, and a smiling innkeeper hurried forward to greet them.
Mr Cleaver arranged everything. A room for himself with an annex for Toby, and the same arrangement for Angel and Milly. Dinner in a private parlour was ordered, plus hot water in their rooms so they might wash off the travel dust before they ate.
Angel and Milly found their bed chamber up a narrow staircase. It was clean, and Milly pronounced the linen to be freshly laundered and aired.
“Bearing in mind I spent the last two nights in a barn, I’m in no state to complain if it isn’t,” Angel said, tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet and casting it aside.
She stared down at the hem of her muddy gown in dismay.
“Never mind that, Miss Angelica. I’ll brush the mud off once it’s dry. I trust you brought a change?” Milly asked, having completed her inspection of their accommodation.
Angel nodded as Milly went to her carpetbag and took out a green gown. It was one of her simplest dresses, warm and practical rather than fashionable. She had left her mourning black at home. Black Jack would not have approved.
Milly did her best to shake out the wrinkles. She helped Angel to dress before unpinning her hair and combing out the worst of the tangles.
“Do you trust him, miss?” Milly asked around a mouthful of pins as she expertly twisted Angel’s hair into order.
“I do,” Angel admitted, hesitating a moment before asking, “Why? Don’t you?”
“Aye.” Milly sighed, shaking her head as she secured the last of the pins. “But I’m worried all the same. You ain’t married, and travelling with an unmarried gent… well, that’s your reputation gone if anyone should hear of it.”
“Well, and who would?” Angel asked, turning on the chair to look up at Milly.
Milly shrugged but still appeared troubled so Angel caught hold of her hand and squeezed.
“I’m Miss Everdene from a tiny seaside village in Sussex, not Lady So-and-So from Mayfair. No one cares what I do. So long as Papa, or someone working for him, does not catch up with us, we’ll do well enough. That’s why I brought you and Toby, after all. So, I looked respectable.”
“I suppose.” Milly nodded and sat down, unpinning her straight fair hair and dragging the comb through it.
“Here,” Angel said, taking it from her. “Let me.”
“Miss Angelica!” Milly protested, trying to snatch the comb back. “It ain’t proper.”
“Pooh!” Angel said in disgust, batting Milly’s hands away. “Who cares about being proper?”
“Not you,” Milly said, resigned to her fate as Angel set to work.